First, a quick plug for local bookstores. I’ve just signed many, many copies of Goblin Secrets for Red Balloon, DreamHaven, and Uncle Hugo’s. If you think a signed copy of the book would make a nifty holiday present, these stores can accommodate you. And I’ll be signing at Wild Rumpus on Thursday if you need a personalized copy.
Let me back up a bit. Here’s how the week unfolded.
On Monday, November 12th I flew to NYC with my lady Alice and our extremely wee lady Iris, who turned precisely two weeks old that very day. Flying to NYC was a summons, and not a request. When you’re a finalist for the National Book Award, they send for you and you come.
On Monday night I met my fellow finalists in the Young People’s Literature category at Books of Wonder.
On Tuesday morning the five of us reunited for the Teen Press Conference. This particular event gave me hope for humanity. Dozens and dozens of kids asked us piercingly insightful questions.
On Tuesday night Harold Augenbraum, Director of the National Book Foundation, awarded medallions to all twenty finalists. This was pretty much exactly like the end of Star Wars IV. Each medallion is large and heavy and shiny and I am reasonably certain that it can stop bullets or ward off vampires.
At the ceremony I got to meet legendary people whose words I’ve loved for years.
We had Iris with us. Everyone told Alice how astonishing it was for her to take on so much crazy activity a mere fortnight after giving birth. Everyone should continue to marvel at this.
Next came the Finalist Reading. All twenty finalists read a bit of their books to a packed auditorium. You can watch the whole thing, if you like. Mine is near the end, but don’t you dare skip past Tim Seibles. That guy has a voice like magnificent clouds that have decided not to rain, but might still change their minds. He gave an ode to his hands. Afterwards he and I chatted about bedtime stories, and how both of our mothers had a gift for reading character voices. “That’s where it starts,” he said, laughing like those heavy clouds. “That’s where all of this starts.”
Here’s something you should know: Absolutely no one had any idea who the winners would be. None of the National Book Foundation staff knew. The director did not know. The judges would meet for lunch on the following day to decide. Meanwhile all of the finalists were treated equally, and honored equally. This is important. It was one of my favorite things about that night–something I wanted to recapture later, when I had to give a speech.
But I’m skipping ahead.
Wednesday morning I got to meet much of the ensemble crew that helped create Goblin Secrets. Books are very much the product of team effort, even though the author’s name is the only one on the front cover. But unlike a theater troupe this kind of cast and crew rarely gathers together in the same room, so it was excellent to finally meet the people responsible for giving my book physical form, and those responsible for getting it out into the world.
Wednesday night was the ceremony, the great big party, the literary equivalent of the Academy Awards. We left Iris at the hotel with our oldest friends (luckily they happened to be NYC locals and therefore available to babysit), drove through hurricane-devastated blocks of Manhattan, and then followed a red carpet into the opulent and surreal Cipriani ballroom. Agent Joe introduced me to Susan Cooper (someone who sits very high in my own personal pantheon of childhood literary heroes) and Gary D. Schmidt, whose work I really wish I could have read as a kid. If I ever find a time machine then I will read his work as a kid. Both of them were, and are, kind and generous and brilliant. They were also the only two judges I met in person; I’d have loved to chat with Daniel Ehrenhaft, Judith Ortiz Cofer, and Marly Youmans that night, but correspondence will have to do.
We schmoozed and laughed and clinked glasses and I was bone-shatteringly nervous the entire time.
Then Gary Schmidt stood onstage, said many wonderful things, and afterwards said my name. I was a little bit astonished.
This is the speech I gave:
Okay, we now have proof that alternate universes exist.
There is a place where Endangered wins this award. There must be. In several dimensions the book was actually written by a bonobo author about an orphaned human, but closer to home there is a moment, this moment, just a small step sideways away, in which Endangered takes this award home.
Another step and it belongs to Out of Reach for creating such substance out of wrenching absence. Another and we are all listening to a speech about the devastating importance of narrative in Never Fall Down. And once we exclude the set of Earths already destroyed by the bomb to consider instead the set of Earths in which we survived to gather here tonight, those include Bomb winning in several.
But we happen to live here, and I happen to write fantasy. For why that’s important, I differ to Ursula Le Guin–as everyone should–who says that “the literature of imagination, even when tragic, is reassuring, not necessarily in the sense of offering nostalgic comfort, but because it offers a world large enough to contain alternatives and therefore offers hope.”
The way things are is not the only possible way that they could be. We have to know that, we have to remember it, and stories are the very first way we figure that out.
Thank you, Karen. Thank you, Joe. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Alice. Congratulations to my fellow finalists, in every possible version of our world. Thank you all for joining me in this one.
That’s what I jotted down beforehand, anyway. I didn’t actually have the piece of paper with me at the podium, so the words that came out of my mouth were a little bit different. You can watch it happen here. The quote is from Le Guin’s book of essays Cheek By Jowl, which absolutely everyone should read.
Thus ends my quick recap of the National Book Awards. John Sellers at PW and Patrick Condon at the AP have since written my two favorite articles about, um, me. Click their way if your curiosity demands more details.
Now I’m home, changing diapers, teaching classes, finding my classroom decorated by marvelous students, and continuing to flail like a happy muppet.
Ciao for now. Next time I need to tell you about the audiobook.
Two new interviews just went up today. The first is by Laura Given at The Nerdy Book Club, and includes both a book giveaway and a brief video of myself reading and babbling about mask-related things. It also includes the Dust Bunny Theory of Novel Writing. The second is by Jeff VanderMeer at Omnivoracious, and includes both my astonishment at becoming a National Book Award Finalist and my further astonishment at being interviewed by Jeff VanderMeer.
I only just met Ann & Jeff a few weeks ago at the Twin Cities Book Festival, but I’ve loved his writing, her editorial vision, and their combined work as anthologists for many years. I got to introduce their presentation at the festival. Here’s what I said:
Ann VanderMeer is a prolific editor, publisher, and anthologist. During her too-brief tenure as the Weird Tales editor in chief the magazine was nominated thrice for the Hugo Award, and won that Hugo in 2009.
Jeff VanderMeer is an equally prolific editor, anthologist, and fiction writer. He is twice a winner and twelve times a finalist for the World Fantasy Award.
The two have collaborated on several anthologies, none more ambitious than The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories. Damien Walter calls it “an anthology of writing so powerful it will leave your reality utterly shredded,” and he implores us not to read it.
Definitions of the Weird are, of course, varied and contradictory, but the VanderMeer’s is the most rich, expansive, international, and compelling approach to an unsettling and uncanny literary tradition for which the rules are not known, and cannot be known.
The companion website to the anthology, Weird Fiction Review .com, has grown into its own institution–if the anthology is too heavy for you to lift, I encourage you all to direct your browsers there. You’ll be fine. Really. It’s perfectly safe.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am honored to present Ann and Jeff VanderMeer.
It’s been a long while since I posted bedtime stories on this blog. Embarrassing, since keeping a record of notable bedtime stories is ostensibly the purpose of the blog. However, I am now honored and privileged to present the first remembered bedtime stories of the VanderMeers.
Ann remembers Briar Rose and Winnie the Pooh first and foremost. As the eldest child, Ann soon transitioned from audience member to reader and performer of bedtime stories. This gave her a considerable amount of power over her younger siblings, who could be bribed or threatened with the promise, or lack, of stories. Ann never abused her powers, of course.
Jeff remembers an illustrated book of “The Tyger” by William Blake. This explains much. He remains productively obsessed with fearful symmetries.
Ciao for now!
So this happened.
I’ve known since Tuesday morning. But Tuesday was my birthday, so I had suspicions that this was all a birthday prank–an astonishingly cruel and elaborate birthday prank. I didn’t even tweet one of those “I have magnificent news, but I’m not allowed to tell you yet!” sort of tweets, just in case it was a prank. But now they’ve announced the finalists on TV and the internet and I’m listed as one of them and everything on TV and the internet is true, right? So maybe this is true.
Right now I feel as though all of my blood has been replaced with some sort fizzy, carbonated drink. My face is in a state of permanent blushing. My hair might catch fire at any moment. My book gets to wear a medallion on the cover.
I need to rent a tux.
This is just a quick post to let local Twin Citizens know that I’ll be at the Twin Cities Book Festival on Saturday. My reading is scheduled for 3:40 in the Children’s Pavilion, but you really should come for the full day. This is an amazing event, one that celebrates literature in all of its wildly diverse forms, and it’s free to attend. Come celebrate with us.